


When the Tale is Told in Textbooks

by puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical, Series, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty years after V-E Day, America visits some of his boys who never made it home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Tale is Told in Textbooks

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of [](http://community.livejournal.com/usxuk/profile)[**usxuk**](http://community.livejournal.com/usxuk/)'s Special Relationship Sweethearts Week for February 8th's theme, Save the Date.

**May 8, 1995**

Well, he'll give England this: if he has to lay some of his boys to rest overseas, he's glad they can rest here. The Cambridge American Cemetery and Memorial is pretty, for a cemetery. It's green and neat and the sun's even decided to stick its head out, which doesn't usually happen when America visits England. Heck, if he squints at the curved lines of crosses stretching over the field, they almost look like white picket fences. Almost.

The memorial building itself sits off to the side, stationed in front of a cluster of trees. There's a mosaic covering the walls and roof, angels and aircraft. It's nice. It always makes America wonder if the planes are going to hit the angels and how the hell the poor pilot's going to explain that one, but it's nice. He's not going to stop by today, though. Instead, he squats by the first cross in his path, squints so he can read the name better.

"James Rowland, Staff Sergeant with the five-sixty-fourth," he reads. "Hey, James. Looks like you were gone before you could find out, but you did all right. We got there."

Maybe it's the being in England thing that's making him talk to dead people—England does it enough—but hey, it's just him and the crosses, and this way it's less like he's alone in a field of them. Besides, they're not just dead people, they're _his_ dead people, and his people, dead or no, usually don't mind a smile and a _hi_ from someone who means well.

"America?"

Okay, maybe he's less alone than he thought. "England?" he says, straightens and brushes some of the grass off his knees. "Thought you were working or something."

"It's a bank holiday," England says. "Or rather, we've moved the bank holiday forward a week. It seemed economical."

"England that was _horrible_."

And wouldn't you know it, England smirks. Never gets tired of the dumb puns, does he? Then again, neither does America. "Thank you."

"Why'd you pass up the chance for two holidays in a row, though?" America asks.

England doesn't smile, exactly, but he looks up at the sky, and the shadows on his face sharpen. "This seemed more important than the other."

"I'd've taken two," America mutters, but doesn't press the point. He scuffs at a patch of loose earth with his toe, and England gives him a Look but there's no official reprimand attached to it, at least.

"Really? You're on holiday now?"

"Today? No," he says. "No, I think we're folding most of the V-E Day stuff into Memorial Day, since we already have that off. Or we're saving the fireworks for September second or August fifteenth." Or not. He shoves his hands into his pockets, wishes he'd worn the pants with deeper ones because his elbows are sticking out at this funny angle now. There's the whole problem of what he's supposed to call it, for one. V-J Day is what it is, yeah, but, well, there's the whole question of how he won in the first place and it's just—it's awkward, that's all. _It was a lot simpler back then_, he almost says, but he remembers, and no, no it wasn't.

"Quieter. At _your_ house." England's mouth twists into a smile. "Those aren't words I'm accustomed to uttering in sequence."

"Yeah, yeah." He swats England on the arm. Not hard, but apparently England disagrees, because he rubs his elbow a little. "Anyway. I thought, you know, things are kind of quiet on the home front, might as well say hey to. Well. The ones who aren't home."

He can feel England tracking his gaze, eyeing the neat rows of crosses, but England doesn't say anything.

"And I got to visit Normandy last year, so that was less pressing, I guess." England's still not talking, so America picks up the slack to fill the silence. It's not a bad kind of quiet here, strictly speaking, but now that the two of them are standing here it's heavier, harder to shake off. "I stopped by Ardennes and Luxembourg earlier. Had to say hi to Patton. You remember Patton."

"Of course I remember Patton. Crazy blighter," England adds fondly. "The fae were most intrigued by him."

"You and your fairies, huh."

"For the last time—oh sod it," England says, "we aren't going to get anywhere with this argument, are we."

"Never stopped us before."

"True." And now England's not scowling. It's nice.

"So yeah," America says, clears his throat because England keeps _looking_ at him and America's looking right back and there are dead people everywhere and one of them should probably say something. "I'm here, and then I should probably head to Lorraine."

"Of course," England says. "I shan't delay you."

"Ha, it's cool, I'm delaying myself."

"Do you know, my PM said this was our last major—ha." He snorts, probably at the lame pun, though when your prime minister's last name is _Major_ the bad puns are probably hard to resist. "Our last major national celebration of our victory in the Second World War?"

"You think he's right?"

England shrugs, adjusts his cardigan. "He might well be. There's a thought."

"Good thought or bad thought?"

"A thought," he says. "That's all." But from the way his lips look a little white and from how he's drawing them a little thin, America's not so sure it's just a thought.

"Well, it's been fifty years," America points out. "That's a while, for them."

"Not so long, for us."

"Long enough," he says.

"Long enough for what, for forgetting?"

"No. Well. Not really. It's not _forgetting_, exactly, it's—" America scratches behind his ear. "Like I said, it's been fifty years. None of us are getting younger."

"Wonderful," England sighs. "And I thought I couldn't feel any older."

"Hey, you usually _brag_ about that."

"I don't particularly feel like bragging about my longevity today."

He's got a point. America looks back up at the clouds, chews the inside of his cheek. "I guess—we've had a lot of stuff happen since then, that's all. And we remember that, too. Plus all the stuff going on now."

"It was—no," England says, and when America looks at him he's almost smiling again. "No, it was decidedly not simpler then."

_Never is,_ America doesn't say.

"Why'd _you_ come?" he asks instead. "I mean, they're not your boys, are they?"

"In a way, they were. Or they might have been, once." England shakes his head. "Regardless, I can honor their sacrifice."

America thinks he hates it most when England says things that actually make sense, because then it's really hard to argue with him. It's even harder when England plucks the flower out of his lapel and rests it at the foot of James Rowland's cross.

Flowers. Damn. America wishes he'd thought to bring more of them. It's hard, though, because ideally he'd have enough for all of them, but carrying three thousand flowers across the English countryside is no mean feat, even for him.

"There," he says. "I think it's safe to say they did you proud?"

"Yeah," America says, around this weird lump in his throat. He swallows, but it doesn't go away entirely. "Yeah, they did great."

"Are you going to stop by the memorial building?" England asks. "It's a lovely one."

America shakes his head. "Nah. I'm here for them," he says, gestures to the graves. "And I remember what they did."

"It ought to be gratifying to hear you say that," England murmurs.

"What, that I remember?"

"Well. Yes."

"I do," he says, and squats to get a better look at a cluster of flowers: the red petals have just started to unfurl, and America strokes one. Doesn't pick it, just strokes it, feels it shiver under his fingers. "I was there, you know? Can't change that."

"No. I don't suppose you can."

"But—I don't know. I like to think I can still do stuff to make 'em proud."

Almost too quietly to hear, England says, "I think you have."

 

\---  
\--

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [this poem](http://www.world-war-2.info/poems/poems_21.php), which was written by a soldier stationed in North Africa during World War II. The [Cambridge American Military Cemetery](http://www.madingleyamericancemetery.info/) is just a really gorgeous place.


End file.
